Blade
by January in June
Summary: Picard took a step closer. “I make it a practice to meet visitors on my ship.” Pim straightened rapidly and shot him a suspicious glance. “Do you?” “You may refer to me as ‘sir.’” “Sir.” The word dripped sarcasm.
1. The Beginning

"Captain, we are being hailed."

"On screen."

The screen flickered, a bit fuzzy as it tried to connect with the planet below. The image focused to reveal a male humanoid, wisps of tan hair framing a balding head. The man on the screen frowned as his hands twisted around a wide brimmed hat made of straw. He wiped his brow with his arm and began to speak.

"Please excuse me, I don't know the proper ceremony for your station. My name is Klaud fa He, and I believe that I may have recovered one of your slaves."

"Greetings, Klaud fa He." Picard stood and approached the view screen. "You must be mistaken, Starfleet is not in the practice of owning slaves."

"Oh, many apologies. Do you have servants? You see, I recovered a woman, alone, unconscious, in the desert. She was wearing this." He held up what was unmistakably a Starfleet communicator.

Picard shot Riker a surprised glance. Riker smirked. "Man overboard?"


	2. The Metachloid

_Captain's log, stardate 4423198.3. According to Starfleet headquarters, violence has escalated in the ongoing struggle between Metachlodia and its neighboring star system, Ex. Our mission is to provide aid to the Metachlodians, whose natural supply of dilithium crystals is invaluable to Starfleet's continued existence. We have also been instructed to meet with representatives from Ex to discuss their application for admission into the United Federation of Planets. The paradox in these orders is apparent both to myself and to my crew. _

_Other concerns. The Enterprise was hailed today by the nearby planet of K'ehfa with news of a stranded crewmember. I can't imagine how a Starfleet officer has been abandoned on a small desert planet of no political or economic import. There have been no reports of missing officers. I have sent Dr. Polaski and a security detail to investigate. I await their report._

Dr. Polaski bent over the unconscious young woman. The farmer, Klaud fa He, was primitive but not without good sense. He'd stabilized the woman on a straight, firm cot, and covered the wounds with clean linen. She was breathing, laboriously, from chapped lips caked with dried blood. Her left eye was swollen in a large yellow bruise, her chestnut hair matted with dirt and sweat.

Dr. Polaski opened her tricorder, glanced at the woman, and then shut the instrument with a frown. "How far are we from Metachlodia?" she asked.

"Two days at warp eight, doctor," one of the security officers answered.

"Hmmmm."

Dr. Polaski opened one of the woman's eyes and shone a small penlight through the light purple pupil. She flipped over the woman's wrist to listen to her pulse, and then scratched at one of her fingernails, which was tinged with red. "Well, here's a metachloid right here. One of the most unique beings in the universe. Life, based not on water and polarity but oil and hydrophobicity. We'll need a shuttle. A transporter would destroy her. Get me a shuttle. And fast."

Once the woman was transported to sick bay, Dr. Polaski became a flurry of activity. "Geordi," she snapped through her comlink, as she simultaneously called up Grey's Metachlodia Anatomy on the computer. "I need something unusual. A set of surgical tools in plastic."

"Plastic?"

"Or rubber. Nothing that conducts electricity or magnetism."

"Right away?"

"Immediately. I've got an officer here whose life depends on it."

"Double time, then, doctor."

Geordi was as good as his word. Within minutes, the replicator in sickbay began humming with his programming. Fully sterilized instruments appeared, and Dr. Polaski briefed her surgical team vehemently. "This woman is unlike other forms of life. Magnetism, electricity, radio or x rays will all burn and scar her. Turn off all comlinks. Touch no metal. Until we have her sewn up, no radio communications, no tricorders, no computers. Is that clear?"

Her students nodded through their masks, tying their hair up and pulling on sterile gloves.

"Ok kids, let's get her up and running again."

Two hours later, the metachloid was sleeping peacefully. She was clean, well bandaged, her cracked ribs realigned and healed, the skin knitted together flawlessly, the bruises and swelling faded from her face. Her breath was even, her heartbeat regular, neural responses suppressed, but normal.

"Comlinks up again," Polaski said, pulling off her gloves and mask. "Dr. Polaski to the bridge."

"Yes, doctor?" it was Picard that answered.

"The woman from K'ehfa will make a full recovery. I want to take her off the sedatives as soon as possible."

"Very good. I'll send Riker and Troi down. You may wake her when they arrive."

On the bridge, Riker and Troi began to rise, but Picard held them with a gesture. "Worf, accompany them to sick bay. Until we have ascertained her history, be prepared for a deserter."

"Very good, captain." The turbolift doors hissed shut behind the three of them.

In sick bay, Riker and Troi stood at the foot of the young woman's bed, Worf a discrete distance behind them. Dr. Polaski administered a stimulant. "It will take a few seconds for her mind to clear," she warned.

The metachloid's eyes fluttered open, her purple pupils dilated and then focused, and she gave a frightened snort.

"You're on the USS Enterprise," Riker said softly. "Welcome."

The woman spoke – "How?" Her voice was thick, raspy.

"You were found, wounded, on the desert plant of K'ehfa. We were passing by on our way to Metachloidia, and stopped to recover you. State your name and rank, please."

The woman began to tremble. "I have no rank."

"You're not a Starfleet officer?" Riker couldn't keep the suspicion from his voice.

"No! No, I am not a member of Starfleet."

Riker opened his mouth to argue, but Troi cut him off. "Very well, what is your name?"

She hesitated. "Pim."

"Pim, you're in a safe place here. No one is going to hurt you. Tell us what happened, and how you ended up on K'ehfa."

"My shuttle craft must have crashed there. I don't remember."

"Your wounds were not consistent with - " Dr. Polaski tried to interject, but Troi cut her off with a sharp shake of her head.

Troi turned back to the woman and smiled. "Right now, I think you need some rest. We'll get you to guest quarters where you can sleep undisturbed. You and I can talk tomorrow about your situation, and we'll figure out how to get you home."

Pim nodded, mute. As Troi escorted her out of sick bay, Riker turned to Worf and muttered through the corner of his mouth. "Let's have a guard outside her door. I don't like this one bit."

"Agreed." Worf growled.


	3. The Comlink

"Well," Picard said, surveying the faces at the officer's meeting. "Let's hear it."

Dr. Polaski handed over the comlink Pim had been wearing. "I can't make heads or tails of this. I can't even use this comlink."

Geordi stared at the comlink, his mouth open slightly. "That's a comlink?"

"Yes," Picard held it out to the engineer. Geordi picked it up. "It's not emitting _anything_ in the electromagnetic spectrum. It's not even made of metal. How does it work?"

"You're going to be the one to tell us, Geordi." Picard said.

"Captain, if I may," Data leaned forward slightly and folded his hands on the table. "Starfleet is in the habit of making specialized comlinks for officers for whom a standard comlink would not suffice. For example, an officer without arms would be unable to use a standard issue comlink." Picard nodded, indicating he should go on. "Since Metachlodians are sensitive to electromagnetic radiation, it is likely that this particular comlink operates under some other principle of communication."

"Figure it out, Geordi," Picard said. "If she is a Starfleet officer, we need to know her name and rank. What else do we know about this woman?"

Dr. Polaski pointed her tricorder at the viewscreen, and an outline of Pim appeared on the screen. The outline was etched with the position and depth of every wound they had healed. "The metachloid's wounds were unusual. She claims to have suffered a shuttle crash, which would be consistent with these wounds here, on her shoulders, torso, and legs. I'll remove them from the picture." Several of the wounds disappeared from the outline. "I could also surmise that these skin abrasions are from the desert sand she was found in." Dr. Polaski removed the abrasions from the picture. "What we are left with is… the bruising."

The outline of the bruises was distinctive. A slap across the face. A punch to the eye. Finger marks on her neck, wrists, arms, ankles.

"What is this?" Picard murmured, eyes frowning. "Abuse?"

"Perhaps she was a deserter trying to escape, and her peers attempted to restrain her." Worf growled.

"Starfleet doesn't slap deserters across the face," Riker said, disgusted.

"It's possible that she was fleeing from an abuser," Troi said. "When the woman woke to find herself in a Starfleet vessel, she was terrified. It would also explain her denial that she is an officer."

"Were the signs of habitual abuse, Dr. Polaski?"

"None that I could see. No indications of previously broken bones, no calluses on her skin or knots in her tissue. I would say that these injuries are recent and unusual."

"Very well." Picard furrowed his brow in thought. "Let's operate under the supposition that this woman is a Starfleet officer, that for some reason has abandoned or been forced from her post. We'll keep a guard outside her door, discretely, for her protection as well as ours. Geordi, I want that report tomorrow. Dismissed."

The officers rose to leave. Picard stared at the diagram that remained on the screen. A slap across the face. A punch to the eye.


	4. The Lies

Pim paced her room. It was comfortable and more space than she was used to, but she was fully aware of the guard outside her door. She had already tried to coax the replicator into creating an interstellar radio for her, but the computer insisted she try the communications department. And that was out of the question. The computer did volunteer, however, the current trajectory of the Enterprise, and Pim now knew that she would be within shuttlecraft distance of Istanlindir-3 within a few days. Perhaps she could make a break for it then. She continued to pace.

Outside her door, Troi approached from down the hallway.

"She's been pacing all night," the guard told Troi. "Silent, but pacing back and forth."

Troi nodded. "Thank you." The door announced her presence with a chirp. The pacing inside stopped suddenly, but the door did not open. Troi waited a moment, and then chose to override the system and open the door. Pim was in the middle of the room, staring at her with suspicious eyes.

"May I come in?" Troi asked.

"Do I have a choice?" Pim snapped.

"Yes." Troi said, and waited patiently. A series of emotions washed through Pim – fear, desperation, distrust, and then resignation.

"You may come in."

Troi entered, and then touched her forehead and lips in the traditional Metachlodian greeting. That elicited the smallest of smiles from Pim, who returned the gesture. They sat.

"Are you comfortable?" Troi asked. "Have you had enough to eat?"

"Yes, thank you," Pim said, tersely, even as Troi felt hunger ripple through her at the thought of food. The hunger was stamped down with fear.

"We would like to help you, Pim," Troi said softly. "We are on our way to Metachlodia, and we can return you to your home planet, without any questions asked. But we would like you to be honest with us."

Pim stared deeply into Troi's eyes. "What do you want to know?"

"Your full name, to start."

"Pim'ya Pash." Troi sensed she was lying.

"Are you from Metachlodia?"

"Yes." The truth.

"Tell me how you crashed on K'ehfa."

Pim swallowed. "I'm a spice trader. My parents are spice traders. I was on a deal, and I ran out of fuel. I crashed on the nearest planet." Not quite a lie…

"Who hit you, Pim?"

"What?" Her voice cracked.

"Someone hit you, Pim." Troi said gently. "Someone has made you very afraid."

"The deal went bad. People get rough over Metachlodian spices." The lie screamed through Pim's emotions.

"Pim," Troi said, reaching out to take Pim's hands. Pim flinched. "No one will hurt you here. If someone in Starfleet has hurt you, we can bring them to justice."

Pim shuddered.

"You must trust us."

"I've had no contact with Starfleet before now, and I have no quarrel with Starfleet. I will pay for my passage when I arrive home. Take me to Metachlodia. That's all I ask."

"Very well. You may ask for me at any time." Troi left.


	5. The Blade

Picard and his officers finished discussing the recent changes in trade embargoes. "And now," he said, changing the subject. "Let's hear reports on the Metachloid comlink. Geordi."

"This comlink is extraordinary. It functions on vibrational frequencies – which means it's effective only over very short ranges. I had to decode the vibrations into the electromagnetic spectrum – a bit like trying to translate a language without a rosetta stone. But, by lining up the standard distress sequences, I was able to get some information out – this comlink belonged to Lieutenant Millana Toren, of the USS Felicity, a science vessel that was, until recently, stationed just out of orbit of Metachlodia."

"Computer," Picard said. "Access all records of one Millana Toren, Starfleet Academy alumnus."

A list of records appeared on the viewscreen. "Millana Toren," the computer volunteered. "Graduate of Starfleet Academy, Science Officer. Degrees in political science and the fighting arts. First place, Interstellar Blades, Stardate 41987, 41988, 41989, and 41990."

Riker whistled. "Every year she attended Starfleet. Nobody give her a butter knife."

Picard harrumphed. "Computer, display item three."

A picture of Millana appeared, smiling and wearing an ensign's uniform. She was younger, but it was unmistakably her.

"Computer, where is Millana Toren now?"

"Information restricted," the computer quipped.

"Captain's override, Picard, Jean-Luc."

"Information restricted."

"Computer," Picard said. "Status of the USS Felicity."

The computer chirped. "The USS Felicity is captained by Jorga Jensen, first mate I'lek T'iiie. Their mission is to conduct chemical research on the surrounding cosmosphere of Metachlodia, for the purpose of cultivating other planets with natural dilithium crystal supplies."

"Computer, status of missing personnel on the Felicity."

"At this time, no personnel are listed as missing."

"Sir, if I may," Data interjected. "Millana Toren has never been listed as a crew member of the Felicity, or any other Starfleet ship. She is currently listed as relieved of active duty."

Picard shot Geordi a glance. "But you retrieved her name and ship from the comlink."

"There's a chance I could have misconstrued the translator, but if that was the case, I would expect gibberish, not a real ship."

"Computer, hail the USS Felicity."

"The USS Felicity will not receive incoming calls at this time."

"Dead ends!" Picard said, incredulously.

Riker was browsing the information on his personal computer. "Captain, may I draw your attention to something?"

"Of course."

"Another Metachlodian attended Starfleet Academy alongside Millana. Her Royal Highness Madame Aurora de Luel, Seventh Princess of the Metachloid."

Picard smiled. "Ah-h-h, now we may be getting somewhere. Royalty, and a companion blade. A bodyguard."

"That's exactly what I was thinking. Millana was probably trained to protect the Princess. It's not unheard of for royal cadets to bring protection with them."

"No, it's not. I think you're right. Where is the Princess now?"

Riker smirked. "Information restricted."

Picard gave a resigned nod. "Of course. So the question remains, where is the Princess now?"


	6. A Plan

Pim hadn't eaten. She hadn't slept. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Jorga, coming towards her with that syringe. Poison. Or worse. She could feel her limbs trembling with fatigue, her stomach rolling and groaning in hunger. The replicator remained unused.

On the second day of Pim's stay aboard the Enterprise, Troi arrived bearing a tray buckling with the weight of hot, fresh Metachloidian dishes. The sight and smell of the Cha'ya sent Pim over the edge, and she accepted the food desperately, wolfing down familiar dishes while Troi nibbled politely and made small talk. Troi grinned on the inside – she'd wagered that while Pim was denying herself the replicator, she wouldn't have the stamina to resist food when it was placed in front of her.

Pim finished with a smothered burp, half expecting a drug to kick in. As the minutes passed and her head remained clear, Pim felt herself relaxing. Troi did not ask her any questions, but brought her up to date on the Metachlodian-Exxan war, and on the Enterprise's estimated arrival time. Troi left, and Pim finally slept.

"She's sleeping now," Troi reported to the captain, dutifully. "I was planning on visiting her again, when she wakes."

"Are you making any progress?"

"Frankly, no." Troi walked to the replicator. "Hot chocolate." She took her drink and sat down. "She's still horribly frightened."

"For her safety?"

"No, it's hard to explain. It's as if she's not frightened for herself as much as frightened for… someone else."

"The Princess?"

"Possibly."

"Perhaps she is trying to protect the Princess by concealing her own identity?" Picard rubbed a hand across his chin. "Could we have found the bodyguard but left the Princess on K'ehfa?"

Troi shrugged. "I'm not getting any answers from Pim, or Millana, whichever name you want to call her."

Picard sighed. "Perhaps it's time I met this young woman."

"Not a bad idea," Troi said, as she sipped. "She's Starfleet. She'll have knee-jerk obedience to a captain."


	7. The Captain

Pim's door chirped, announcing a visitor. She stopped pacing. "Enter," she said softly. The doors shot open to reveal the captain.

She knew his rank at once. It wasn't so much the circles at his neckline, but rather in the way he held himself. His back was straight, his eyes were forceful, but kind, and the set of his shoulders was unbroken and regal. He felt strangely familiar, and Pim had trouble pinning down the feeling. As he took his first steps in the room, Pim realized who he reminded her of – her father.

"I am Captain Jean-Luc Picard." A lesser man might have missed the sudden stiffening that flashed across Pim, as if she had been about to straighten into a salute. Instead, she bowed, touching her lips and forehead in Metachlodian greeting.

Head still bowed, she responded. "I am Pim, a spice trader from Metachlodia. To what do I owe the honor of your presence?"

Picard took a step closer. "I make it a practice to meet visitors on my ship."

Pim straightened rapidly and shot him a suspicious glance. "Do you?"

"You may refer to me as 'sir.'"

"Sir." The word dripped sarcasm.

"You seem uneasy. Please accompany me on a walk. I'd like to ease your mind on several subjects." Picard watched her reaction. Her pulse was visible at her throat, racing. She looked like a rabbit caught in a trap, searching for a way out and finding none.

She stood, gathered her skirts about her, and walked out of the room before Picard, head held high. Outside her room, Picard dismissed the guard with a gesture. Pim watched him go, following him with her eyes.

"May I take your arm?" Picard asked, looking down at her.

"No." Her answer was terse.

"Very well, follow me."

Picard led her through the hallways, nodding at the passers by.

"The first point I would like to make," Picard said, quietly just to Pim, "Is that no one will harm you here. No one. I won't permit it."

Pim stared at him, her eyes void of emotion.

"The second point is that we are already on our way to Metachloidia, and we _will_ return you to your homeworld." Picard stopped outside holodeck 3. "That being said, I wish you would trust us. I've created a program I think you will enjoy. Somewhere where we can talk." The doors flung open and Pim, with one last suspicious glance, entered before him.

She gasped. The holodeck was a perfect model of the Starfleet fencing gym, right down to the smell of the padding and the shine of the dull practice blades. The holodeck doors hissed shut behind Picard.

Pim snarled. She grabbed a sword at random and then violently kicked over the blade rack. Blades went skittering across the floor towards Jean-Luc.

"Is this supposed to be _funny_?" she growled, her face contorted with anger. "Is this some kind of sick game? It's not enough for you just to take what you want, you have to play with me first?"

"I thought this would be a safe space for you. A place where we can talk about who you really are."

Pim's blade shot up, and she cut the comlink from Picard's tunic. It sizzled and skid across the floor, lost in the mess of blades. Her sword point hovered dangerously just beneath his chin. "Go on," she spat. "Tell me who I am."

Picard swallowed. "You are Lieutenant Millana Toren, Starfleet science officer, currently relieved of active duty."

Pim dropped the blade. It clattered to the floor. Her arm, she dropped much more slowly. Her head drooped slightly.

"Do you deny it?" Picard asked rubbing his palm across his neck, where her sword point had hovered moments before.

"No." The word whispered between her lips. She sank to the floor, clumsily. "I suppose you'll throw me in the brig for this, captain."

"No." Picard sat down beside her. "No, I think that you're a very frightened young woman, but I don't think that you mean us harm. Tell me what happened."

"My people are in danger. The war on my planet is killing them. I should be with them, not in Starfleet. I commandeered a transport. It crashed." She hid her face in her hands. "I'm sorry."

"That's not the whole truth."

Pim remained silent.

"I'll cut you a deal." Picard cleared his throat. "We're one day from Istalindir-3. Have dinner with me tomorrow night on Istalindir, and I'll pay for a shuttle ticket to Metachloidia's moon. All this on one condition. You tell me the truth, the whole truth, tomorrow night."

Pim stared at him for thirty seconds before she spoke. "Yes, captain."


	8. Running

"Incredible." Riker laughed. "She really had you at swordpoint?"

"Popped my comlink straight off my jacket. I hadn't been that scared since Laplace."

Troi shook her head. "I still don't like this. She's substituted one lie with another."

"Yes, but we're closer to the truth. She admits to her identity, to her rank in Starfleet. You have to admit that's a good beginning. I have every confidence she'll tell me more tomorrow, with her safe journey so close at hand."

"I don't doubt you, captain," Riker said. "But I do wish you would take a security detail."

"No. I've gained her trust only a little, and I'm not going to lose it now."

"At the very least, have your comlink hot to Worf."

"That, I will do. Always good to know you've a Klingon listening in."

* * *

Pim was ready when Picard came to escort her to dinner. She was dressed just as he was. Pants, a plain shirt, a casual jacket. Nothing to call attention to themselves. Picard's comlink was hidden discretely in his jacket pocket, already live and transmitting to Worf.

"I have a transport waiting. I'll pilot it myself."

Pim nodded. Their journey through the hallways was quiet. Once they were in the shuttle and clear of the Enterprise, Pim relaxed slightly, letting her shoulders droop.

Picard saw the gesture through the corner of his eyes. "So, Lieutenant, would you like to take the helm?"

She looked at him, surprised. "Yes?" It was almost a question. Picard transferred the control to her panel, and she let her hands slide across the interface, effortlessly. She piloted the shuttle out of the docking bay seamlessly.

"You're a good pilot," Picard said.

"When you're a Metachloid, you have to be. Transporters kill us. All that polarized energy – it's just not made for oil-based beings."

"Yet Metachloids look remarkably human."

"Yes, and there's some interesting theology there."

She parked the shuttle against the landing bay on Istalindir. The shuttle doors hissed open.

"Theology?"

Pim shook her head. "It's not important."

Picard felt that a moment had passed. She had opened up to him, for those few brief moments while she held control of the shuttle. It was gone now, gone as surely as if she had shut a door in his face.

"Shall we eat?" Picard led her towards the only restaurant on this station. They sat at synthetic tables and the waiters brought them traditional finger bowls. Pim rinsed her finger tips and then pressed them against her cheeks. Picard copied the gesture. "Would you be kind enough to order for me?" he asked, gently. Pim nodded and spoke in a rapid, rolling tongue to the waiters. He smiled, nodded, and left.

Picard glanced around the eatery. As was the case with neutral zones in a war, there were Metachloids and Exxans alike. Picard had had a few dealing with Exxans before, and recognized them by their pronounced brow ridges, dark gray skin, and heavy lidded purple eyes. Pim looked nervous, and kept her eyes squarely on the table. There was enough chatter around them to have a private conversation, Picard thought. This is as good a moment as any. He reached inside his jacket.

Pim jumped to her feet, toppling her chair and causing everyone in the room to turn to look. Picard, surprised and alarmed, held out the credit chip that had been in his jacket. "This is just a credit chip. For the transport."

Pim righted her chair and sat down. "Oh."

"Pim, Milanna," Picard struggled with which name to adress her by. "I have been completely honest with you." He slid the credit chip over to her. "I think it's time you were honest with me. I can help you."

Pim glanced over his shoulder. A group of Exxans were staring at her, puzzled. Pim hurried to drop her gaze. "You have. Helped me, that is. I need to leave, please don't follow." She took the credit chip, stood, and began to walk away.

"Pim!" Picard stood. She didn't stop. "Lieutenant Toren!" She increased her pace. Picard began to stride after her. "Millana!" She broke into a run.

He caught up to her in the dimly lit hallway, grabbing her arm and swinging her around to face him. "Who are you running from?" he demanded.

Picard felt the sudden cold of a phaser pressed against the back of his neck.

"She's running from us."


	9. Prisoners

Picard froze. Millana turned to run, but one of the several Exxans behind Picard lunged after her, dragging her back by her arm, her hair. Without looking backward, Millana trust the palm of her hand up into the Exxan's face, and Picard heard bone crunch. She used her leverage against the wounded Exxan to kick out at another, and he crumpled. The injured Exxan screamed, but two other Exxans dove for Millana, grabbed her arms, and held her still as a third Exxan backhanded Millana across the face. Millana's neck snapped back, her eyes rolled and she went limp. The assorted Exxans laughed.

"No!" Picard barked, watching her crumple.

"Quiet," his captor hissed. "Hands behind you."

Picard felt his hands being wrapped in wire. One of the others picked Millana up and hefted her across his shoulders. At phaser-point, Picard was marched down the hall to a docking bay, and flung into a shuttle. They were unceremoniously forced into a cargo hold, and the door locked behind them. Millana moaned but did not wake.

"Worf," Picard whispered. "We've been taken captive by Exxans. We've been forced into a shuttle. Can you read our position?"

There was no answer.

"Worf? Worf?"

Millana sat up, rubbing her head. "Your communicator won't work here, captain. These ships are lined with cortosis."

"_Merde_."

Millana crawled behind him and unbound his hands. "Are you hurt?"

"No. Are you?"

"A little dizzy." She freed Picard's hands and he flexed his wrists. Picard turned to face her. Her eyes were full of fear and her hands trembled slightly. "Captain, will you help me end my life?"

Picard started. "Come again, Lieutenant?"

"Please, captain, kill me. Choke me." Her eyes were begging. She held out the wire that his hands hand been bound with.

"Millana, my communicator was hot to my head of security. They'll be after us within seconds of our final transmissions. They may even intercept this shuttle."

Millana's lips wavered, and her breathing was uneven. "Please, captain, we may not have a lot of time. Kill me, and you will save ..." her voice trailed off, uncertain.

Picard dropped his chin and whispered, "The princess?"

Millana looked away.

"Do you know where the princess is?"

"Yes."

"Are you the princess' bodyguard?"

"Yes."

"Do the Exxans know this?"

"Yes. Yes they do, after you shouted my name in the station."

Picard felt a lightning bolt of guilt shoot through his stomach.

Millana did not meet his eyes. "They will torture me until I tell them where she is, captain. Once they have her, they will bargain her life for dilithium – enough dilithium to reign terror in our solar system for generations."

The shuttle gave a lurch, and Picard felt a thrill of hope that it was the Enterprise's tractor beam, but it was just the shuttle docking with the nearby Exxan ship. The door to the cargo hold was thrown open, and the two of them grabbed. Marched down a dark, smelly corridor, Picard was thrown into the brig – a dim, unlit, barred room. His captors dragged Millana away. Once out of sight, he heard Millana yelp, and then all was silent.

* * *

Picard spent several hours pacing back and forth, until he heard the door to the brig grind open. A burly Exxan guard tossed Millana into the room, limp, on her face. A small Exxan woman, wrapped in a black burqa-like shroud, followed, bearing a tray with a pitcher of liquid and some gray linens. She set the tray on the ground.

"Clean her," the guard demanded, and they left.

Millana groaned and tried to push herself up to a sit. Picard knelt by her side, fighting revulsion at the sight of her broken fingers. "Millana?"

She took a ragged breath and struggled to meet his eyes. "Ii'plessi r tann laiet, pa'an?" she asked, in her native language.

"Millana, it's Captain Picard."

"Pa'an, iimm lessssssss…" The final word was slurred in pain, as she let her trembling arms collapse and pressed her face against the floor.

"I know, Millana, I know," Picard said, gently. In the dim light he could see her back was dark and shining with blood. "Lay still." Her jacket was in shreds, and he began to peel the ragged fabric from her back, revealing her torn and bloody flesh. She had been whipped, mercilessly, and Picard ground his teeth angrily. He took the pitcher – it was filled with a pale yellow oil. For a moment, he hesitated, wondering if the oil was poisoned. He dipped his finger into the pitcher and tasted a drop – sweet, not bitter, unlikely to be poisoned. Picard dipped the cleanest looking linen in the pitcher and began to gently wipe the blood from her back. Millana hissed slightly. He bound her wounds as best he could, tied tight bandages around the fingers that were broken, and then shrugged his own jacket off to cover her. His thin shirt was little use against the cold air in the brig, and he shivered slightly as he pulled Millana to a sit.

"Millana, listen to me. I can't let you go into shock. Sit up and speak to me."

She leaned against him, almost upright. "Aye… sir, captain. Sir."

"Good girl. Count to ten for me."

"One, two, three, four, five…" she took a deep breath. "Six, seven, nine, ten."

"Close enough."

"Captain?" The bandages helped, and her head was clearing.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I doubted you. You're not one of them, are you?"

"No. No, I'm not."

"I was on the Felicity." She mumbled through thick lips. "My captain was Jorga, did you know Jorga?"

"No."

"She sold me."

"_Sold_ you?"

"To the Exxans. She figured out who I was and she sold me."

"Is that why you were on K'ehfa?"

"The Exxans came to collect me… they drugged me, but I escaped. I lost consciousness on the shuttle, I crashed on K'ehfa…" she sobbed. "Then you found me and I thought Starfleet would sell me again… as soon as the nearest Exxan ship…"

"No, no, no…" Picard threaded his fingers through her hair. "No, never. We will bring Jorga to the criminal courts, she will be punished for her crimes."

Millana began to cry and laugh. "I'll never see it done. If you don't kill me, here, now, the Exxans will. Please, captain." She grabbed hold of his tunic in desperation, yelping as her fingers protested. "Please, end this."

"No," Picard whispered, drawing her closer, and suddenly his lips were on hers. She gasped softly. His lips were soft, firm, demanding. His hand behind her neck gentle but strong. A warmth spread from where his lips moved against hers. The kiss ended slowly, softly, and Millana sighed and laid her head against his shoulder. Picard stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. "The Enterprise is coming," he whispered. She nodded. She was quiet for a moment, but then stirred against him.

"I'm number seven," she whispered.

"Millana?"

"Would you pick me, of the seven?" she muttered, and then slept. Picard cradled her against himself, his face buried in her hair, wondering what he had done.


	10. The Princess

They woke to the sound of the brig door being thrown back. Picard helped Millana to a stand, and she faced the Exxan delegation with her shoulders back defiantly.

"Good morning, Lieutenant, Captain," The largest Exxan said with a sneer.

"I am Jean-Luc Picard of the USS Enterprise," Picard said, taking a small step in front of Millana. "There has been some misunderstanding, I am certain that your people do not wish to provoke a war with the federation."

"Provoke a war?" One of the guards laughed. He stepped closer to Picard and pushed the end of his phaser flat against the captain's forehead. "When we're done with you two, we won't provoke a war, we'll declare it." The guard laughed, and didn't notice as Picard deftly palmed a pass key from the Exxan's belt.

"We have a special treat for you today." The guard continued. "Since our darling Millana was … unimpressed … with our interrogation yesterday, we've brought in a specialist. I have the honor of introducing Vice-Chancelor Ka'al." The Vice-Chancellor, robed in gold mesh, stepped into the brig.

Millana fell to the floor, clawing at her face. Picard and the guards stared, confused, until one of the guards picked her up and forced her hands behind her back. She held her head as low as it would go.

The vice-chancellor eyed her suspiciously. "Computer, increase light."

The brig brightened. The chancellor took two very slow and deliberate steps. "What do we have here?" he said, and forced Millana's chin up. He started, and then a smile spread cruelly across his face. He began to laugh, slowly, and then with more and more malice until he could hardly contain himself. "You fools!" he shrieked, his voice unnaturally high. "Utter fools! You wouldn't know a diamond if you bit into it." He slapped Millana across the face. "This is…" he began to laugh again. "Allow me to introduce her Royal Highness Princess Aurora de Luel, seventh princess of the Metachloid." He bowed, mockingly. "Your highness…"

Millana had drawn herself tall. "You will release our royal person." Her voice was deeper, unwavering.

"Not very likely, your highness," he said, punching her swiftly in the stomach. She doubled back against the guard holding her. "I think it is much more likely that we will establish a connection with your father. Your life for thirty thousand metric tons of dilithium crystals, I think. You will have the supreme honor of being the reason your civilization dies." He spat in her face. "Enjoy the last few moments of your life." He left. The guards threw Millana to the ground and slammed the brig door behind them.

Picard knelt beside Millana, who was clutching her midriff. He reached to take her shoulders but she thrust him aside. "You will not touch our royal person."

"So it's true."

"Yes, it's true." Millana panted and straightened, overcoming the pain. "You understand now why you should have killed me. But it makes no difference anymore. Either my father will ransom me, and the Exxans will have enough dilithium to power their lasers forever, or I will be murdered while my family watches. Oh, Jean-Luc, I'm so sorry." The tears began flowing down her face. "I wanted to trust you, I wanted to tell you, but I've been hiding for so long, I…"

"I think I have a way out of here," Picard whispered, letting her catch a glimpse of the pass key. Her eyes lit up.

"The serving women pass this corridor at regular intervals," Millana said, suddenly snapping out of her tears. "If we can steal their robes, we could make it to the shuttle bay."

"The sooner the better, I think."

"Aye, Captain."


	11. Escape to the Surface

"Stay low, stay low," Millana hissed under her breath. "Exxan women are short."

It would have been comical if they were not both so frightened – the two of them, under stolen heavy black burkas, crouched in the hallways and trying to imitate the rapid step and absolute deference of an Exxan woman.

They were surprisingly successfully, however, arriving in the shuttle bay unquestioned. They made short work of the two guards who were on duty in the shuttle bay, Millana throwing off her burka to kick one beneath the chin as Picard delivered a right hook to the second's jaw.

Millana hustled him into a shuttle as an alarm began to sound, a low whistle that grew to an agonized shriek. "That's a battlestation alarm!" Millana said as she fired up the engines. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

Picard strapped himself into his seat. "The Enterprise!"

"Exactly." Millana gripped the controls. "Hold on." She slammed the pod forward, and they shot out of the shuttle bay into the middle of a photon torpedo war between the Exxans and the towering, glorious Enterprise. Millana activated the interstellar radio. "Enterprise, this is Lieutenant Torren and Captain Picard, do you read?"

No answer.

Picard spoke up. "Picard to Riker, do you read?"

There was a sudden crack and a blaze of sparks. Millana cursed. "We're hit." The pod began to spin. She wrestled with the controls. "We're in orbit over Metachlodia, unless the Enterprise gets us in her tractor beam now, I'm going to have to take her down to the surface."

"Picard to Enterprise!"

There was another crack. "Too late," Millana said grimly. "Going down!"

The shuttle accelerated wildly, and Millana threw her back into keeping the pod level. "Impact in five, four…" Millana loosed the emergency parachute, and the pod lurched to a slower speed. "Three, two…"

The pod rammed into earth, skipped one, rolled over several times, and then slowly creaked and groaned into silence.

Picard struggled to release his harness and then dragged himself out through a shattered window. With a muffled groan, Millana did the same. They stumbled out from the wreckage and then towards each other, their footsteps uneven in the pale gravel of the planet's surface.

"Sorry, captain. I'm usually a smoother ride."

"Somehow I doubt that." Picard brushed some of the dust of the wreck from his sleeves. "Do you know where we are?"

Millana sighed. "No, not exactly. We're in the southern hemisphere, if we head north we'll run into some farming villages and they'll be able to arrange for transport. It might be a day or so, on foot."

"Can you manage?"

Millana nodded. "Metachloids heal fast." She showed him the fingers that only yesterday had been crippled, but now were mobile, if a little stiff.

Picard wiped a small cut over one eye. "I'm glad to hear it. Humans, not so much."

"You're hurt?"

Picard dismissed her question with a frown and shook his head. "Let's head north."

"Aye, captain."

There was a chilly silence between the two of them. Millana felt somehow that she should apologize for the crash, but feared any apology would sound childish. They began to trudge through the thick pale sand, which gave way to terse, gray shrubs, an eventually morphed into tall, green grasses and finally a dark green forest.

The trees were draped with moss, and hanging vines, and the walking was tough going. They passed a river, and Millana stopped to drink but warned Picard away. "It'd be like drinking oil to you," she said, wiping her mouth with a sigh. She filled her hands with the river's slightly golden contents and splashed them over her face. She closed her eyes and smiled softly. Picard looked away.

Millana stood from beside the river bank and began to clamber back to Picard. "I think this is the M'uala, if we follow it north we could be in a village tomorrow."

Picard nodded, unspeaking, and Millana frowned. "Are you alright, captain?"

"I've made it through worse than this, Lieutenant," Picard said with a dark sarcasm.

Millana flinched. "We'll make it to a village tomorrow, they'll have food and drink that you can stomach, I'm sorry to cause you discomfort."

"Discomfort?" Picard reached out and grasped Millana's forearm. "This isn't about my personal discomfort, you lied to me, Millana, and furthermore – "

"I've been lying my whole life, _captain_." Millana laid sarcasm on his title. "If you'll be so kind as to release our royal person," Millana switched to the royal "we," "Perhaps we can have you pardoned."

"What do you mean, _pardoned_?"

"Accosting the seventh princess of the Metachloid is a serious offense."

Picard dropped his grip on her arm. "Seventh?"

"Six older sisters. That makes me seventh. And thus free to join Starfleet, though I took the precaution of changing my name."

"Not really royal then," Picard said, dismissively. "An heir and a spare."

Millana gagged in astonishment. "How dare you?" She turned her back and began walking away. "Find your own damn way back to the Enterprise."

"Lieutenant Torren, hold your ground, that's an order."

She turned, her eyes fiery. "I think you'll find that I am your superior here, Jean-Luc. So go to hell." All the same, she stood her ground, feet a shoulder's length apart, hands clasped behind her back – the traditional pose of an officer awaiting orders. The gesture was not lost on Picard.

Picard swallowed. "You'll treat me as your captain," his voice raspy.

Millana raised her chin slightly. "You'll treat me as your sovereign."

"Then lead the way, your majesty."

They walked until the second sun set.

"They're isn't anything really dangerous in the forest," Millana said, as they settle for the evening, the third and final sun slowly disappearing below the horizon. "A few herds of wild Iek, a bit like horses. They can bite and kick when cornered, but they'll avoid us. Do you mind if I start a fire?"

"No," Picard sat down heavily, drawing up one knee to casually rest his arm across it. The light was fading, but Millana managed to clear a space in the brush, line a circle of stones, and strike two together to produce a flame. The fire slowly flickered into brightness, illuminating Millana's haggard and dirty face. Twin tracks of dirt were etched down her cheeks, and Picard realized with a start that she had been crying. Their eyes met across the firelight.

A sudden tenderness swelled within Picard. Their earlier struggle for power was forgotten. "Millana," he said softly.

She stuffed her fist in her mouth, childishly trying to suppress a sob. She closed her eyes tight and so was startled when she felt Picard sit beside her, gently pressing his shoulder against hers. "I don't mean to patronize," he murmured. "But you're all right now. The danger is behind us."

Millana nodded, shifting away from his touch. Without another word, she turned her back to him and laid down, curling inwards and away. Picard lay back and watched the firelight play on the underside of the trees.

_You'll treat me as your captain_, he had said. He cringed. Hadn't just yesterday he held Lieutenant Torren in his arms? Hadn't he been desperate to ease her pain? Hadn't he kissed her?

But she was not Lieutenant Torren anymore. _You'll treat me as your sovereign_, she had retorted. He certainly hadn't done that. He'd never treated anyone less like a sovereign, forcing his kiss upon her in her moment of need and then, out of embarrassment or some twisted sense of betrayal, pushing her away with cold words and colder looks.

Picard ran a hand over his face, unable to find an apology, unable to confess. Unable to do anything but look at the stars and pretend, for her sake, that he couldn't hear her crying.


	12. Failing that, a Lieutenant

Picard awoke to a raging thirst, and they both rose to soldier on in silence. It was a great relief when they could first hear the village, and then, brushing tall, think palm fronds aside, they emptied themselves into its midst.

There was a sudden burst of immobility as every person in the village halted to stare, creating a strange tableau of women, baskets of food balanced on one hip, children, paused in games of skill and catch, and men, poles across their shoulders slung with fish, meats, oil – all staring.

And then, as suddenly as the silence had come across them, the village came to life with shouts of wonder and a surge of joy. Each person ran forward to Millana, calling blessings and greetings in her native language.

Millana held out her hands and blessed them, taking children from their mothers to kiss them delicately on each ear. She laid a hand on the forehead of every adult that came before her, murmuring her blessings, and the people clasped her hands and kissed them.

Somewhere in her string of blessings Millana must have requested water for Picard, because a young boy came running up to present him with a palm frond filled with what was clear, if warm, water. Picard thanked him and drank hungrily, accepting a second and then a third leaf from the boy.

Picard looked up from his drink and noticed he was slowly being surrounded by young men. As he met their gazes, they bobbed their heads and slowly, hesitatingly, came forward to touch his feet. Uncertain as to the meaning, he glanced over at Millana, who had a child on each hip.

"It's alright, it's a … greeting." She smiled at him, as if privy to some double meaning.

"Should I return the gesture?" Picard asked.

"No," Millana said, with a laugh and a wolfish grin.

Once she had greeted every villager, Millana requested hospitality for Picard, and encouraged him to go along with the shy young man who took him by the hand.

The boy led him to a tent made of hanging silks – three times as high as Picard was tall, the red and gold hangings draped over firm wooden poles, polished to a shine. The interior was lined with thick, soft carpets and casually arranged circular pillows, wide enough to sleep on. Picard was followed by a long line of villagers, who first carried in an enormous brass bathing tub, then ewers filled with hot, steaming water, and then tiny crystal flagons of sweet oils. They filled the tub, presented Picard with thick towels and a set of clothes, and then left him to bathe.

Picard emerged from the tub much cleaner, although not much more content. The clothes were simple enough, and he tied the drawstring of the loose, wite cotton pants around his waist, and then slipped into the red shirt. The shirt was long, it would have passed for a nightshirt on the Enterprise, but it was heavily embroidered and possibly very formal.

He stepped from the tent into the fading afternoon of the village, barefoot as was everyone else. Millana was in the midst of her people – they did not crowd her as before, but it was clear they vied for the attention of their princess.

Millana had bathed, as well, and was dressed in a simple shift of pink silk, barefoot, flowers in her hair. She felt Picard's gaze and turned to smile at him, before getting down on both knees to greet a chubby young girl. The two of them had a lengthy, rather serious conversation, and then Millana kissed the girl and her mother, and turned to walk to Picard.

"Hungry?" she asked simply.

Picard nodded. "Quite."

"I've asked for a dinner to be served in my tent," she said. "Shall we?" She led him to a tent similar to the one Picard had bathed in, although he could tell by the way there was gold leaf sewn into the silk hangings, this was the more prestigious tent.

A low brown table was set on the floor, every inch covered with rich, hot food. Millana sat crosslegged on one side of the table and Picard copied the position.

"You'll like these," Millana said, familiarly, pointing out the dishes closest to Picard. "But don't eat the little blue berries, they'll make you ill." She scooped a dish of the forbidden fruit for herself and ate without ceremony.

Picard began to eat as well, accepting a goblet of gold wine when she poured it for him. The wine was strong, and sent a trail of fire down his throat as he swallowed. It was not an unpleasant sensation, he mused, and well complimented the spicy taste of the food in front of him.

Millana was almost giddy with joy at being served true Metachlodian food. She drank the wine in large gulps and spooned food into her face with the selfish enthusiasm of a grown child home for the holidays. She smothered a burp, and then sighed. "I've missed this food. You just can't get fresh Metachloidian anywhere but home." She took another swig of wine.

Picard copied the gesture, feeling the fire wine spread into his muscles where it smoldered deliciously. Suddenly sated, he leaned back on one elbow to watch Millana. She had a mouthful of food and looked slightly chimpmunkish. She swallowed, embarrassed.

"Are you finished?"

"Yes," Picard said brusquely. His appetite for food was gone, replaced by a dull longing. Millana's face, framed by the flowers, was flushed and happy. There was a light in her eyes that hadn't been there before.

"Me too." Millana called for a servant to clear away the table, and then they were alone again. Millana stretched her arms, yawning.

"Tell me," Picard said, emboldened by the wine, "What was so funny when the young men greeted me?"

"Ah," Millana smiled. "Metachlodian princesses are said to have very discriminating taste in men. They touched your feet in the hopes of gaining some of your… prowess."

Picard laughed. Millana yawned again, though she was grinning.

"You're tired. I'll leave," Picard said softly, starting to rise.

"No no, make yourself comfortable."

Picard, already supremely uncomfortable, fidgeted. "Here? For the night?"

Millana leaned down to prop herself up on one elbow, smug. "As I said, we have v_ery_ discriminating tastes."

Smirking, Picard lowered himself to one elbow so that they were face to face. "Lieutenant, I could have you court-martialed for harassment." He brushed a strand of hair from her face.

"I think you'll find that I am your superior here, Jean-Luc," the whispered phrase, once so blunt and angry, was now teasing and inviting.

Picard's breath hitched. It would be so easy, so desperately easy to lean forward and capture a kiss. She _wanted_ to be kissed. Her eyes sparkled, bright with desire – and wine.

Wine. Picard's self-control returned like a cold wave. He was drowning in the sudden knowledge of the inappropriateness of this situation. However charming and flushed the girl before him was, she was royal and he was Starfleet - honor bound to treat her as a sovereign. Or failing that, a lieutenant. And neither of those titles would allow him to stay.

"I'm sorry, Millana," he said. He rose swiftly and the silk hangings of the tent sighed shut behind him. Millana slowly pulled the flowers from her hair.

The suns set, and in separate tents, neither of them slept.


	13. Imanhana

The next morning, Picard stood beside his mount, an Iek. Picard prided himself on his horsemanship, and so it bothered him when Millana swung easily into her saddle, whilst he was still struggling to get a foot in the stirrup. Millana, too polite to laugh or too haughty to be bothered, waited patiently. Once he had finally mounted the strange, two legged beast, Millana reined hers around and accepted a sword from the village headmistress. She trotted to the front of their escort – several of the adult men and women of the village – and drew the sword expertly into the sun, calling out the advance. Picard nudged his Iek into place with the rolling, lumbering parade.

Millana led the procession for the first hour or so, but then fell back to ride alongside Picard. "Managing alright?" she asked, without turning her head to look at him.

"Quite." Picard glanced over at her. "Is it a long way?"

"Most of the day. We should be in the city by sunset. I had the villagers pack water for you, ask for it at any time."

"Thank you."

Millana cleared her throat. "I'm sorry if I embarrassed you last night, I should have made better arrangements."

Picard frowned and turned away slightly. "There's nothing to apologize for, Lieu… your highness."

"Eh. My title is simply 'Lady.' None of that highness-princess-majesty, please. And coming from you I prefer 'lieutenant,' captain." She turned her face to him and gave him a very small smile.

Picard returned the gesture with a curt nod, and Millana kicked her Iek back into place at the front of the procession. They rode into the city palace grounds as the sun set. The pale, rose-colored light of the third sunset threw translucent shadows on the intricate stonework of the courtyard and palace. To Picard's surprise they rode their Iek straight up the steps to the inner courtyard of the palace, which was flanked by towering stone monoliths.

Millana dismounted, and the stone palace doors were thrown open to reveal the king and queen. Millana bowed forward slightly, palms pressed together, while the monarchs, heavily draped in orange velvet, raised their hands in blessings. Millana rose from her bow, and, ceremony over, threw herself into the arms of her parents, who kissed her. All three of them were crying, and they led her into the palace without a backwards glance.

A young man came up to Picard and said in broken common, "Please, I shall be having honor to assist you to rooms."

Picard dismounted. "Thank you," he said, to the young, dark eyed boy.

"We will dine in state tonight. I have fine robes for you."

Picard nodded, and followed him away. As they rounded a corner of the palace hallways, he thought he heard Millana laughing, but when he turned there was no one there. He followed behind the boy, dutifully.

The hallways were immense affairs, towering white marble walls lined with exquisitely detailed portraits, which were brightly hued in reds and oranges. Picard passed a portrait of Millana and stopped to stare.

"First Queen," the boy said proudly.

"Millana – Lady Aurora?" Picard asked, uncertain.

"No no. Mother of the mother of the mother of the mother," the boy said, ticking off generations on his fingers.

Picard tore his gaze away. The woman in the portrait was crowned, royal, and looked uncannily like the woman who only wanted to be a Starfleet lieutenant.

The boy led him to a familiarly attired room, with a carving over the door that said in several languages "Diplomat's Quarters." As promised, there were robes of state for Picard, as well as a bedroom furnished luxuriously and familiarly.

Picard dressed warily. He had enough practice with state dinners, in cultures both familiar and alien, but something about this whole situation had him out of his element. The robes were heavy, a dark green velvet, with a high, stiff collar. After he was dressed, the boy returned to escort him to the dinner, keeping up a constant chatter.

"I will interpret the words for you all night. I am the best in my class for languages. I can even speak Landonian, listen: URgH aplech hur hur."

"Very good, I'm sure," Picard said, distracted. They had entered the ballroom, a sweeping room four stories high at the least, carved into red and gold marble, the ceiling open to the fading second sun. There were tables, and, unlike the tents, high backed chairs. The boy found Picard a suitable place – a dignitary's station, near to the royal table but far enough to prevent conversation.

With a blare of trumpets, large double doors were thrown open for the royal family to process – the king and queen first, in long sleeves of red velvet, followed by the seven daughters, dressed in glaringly bright colors, ending with Millana in pink. The girls were all stunningly similar, and at a distance Picard might have been hard pressed to pick out Millana – like trying to find a dove in a dovecote, Picard mused.

After the dinner had been served and eaten, the queen stood and gestured towards the dignitary's table. "It is time for business," the boy at Picard's elbow said. "The Queen would like to meet with you." Picard stood, squared his shoulders and made his way to stand before the royal family. He bowed from the waist, waiting for the queen to speak.

"Captain Picard," she said, in heavily accented English. "My daughter credits you with her survival. Our debt to you is insurmountable. There is no gift we can give to express our thanks, but you will always be welcomed among our people. We grant you the title of Imanhana, champion and friend."

"Imanhana," the royal family repeated, bowing their heads.

"Please, accept this blade as a symbol of our friendship and gratitude." A servant came forward and proffered a sword, a beautiful sword with a gold handle, sheathed in dark black wood. Picard took the sword with both hands, and bowed again.

"I am honored," he said.

"Our daughter will not be returning to Starfleet."

Picard raised his eyebrows. Millana turned sharply and launched into her native language, in what was unmistakably a protest. She was silenced with a single sharp look from her mother.

"We appreciate all that your organization has done for our daughter, but we cannot allow her to serve in such dangerous conditions. We have already spoken to Admiral Kaldoan. He has agreed to server Aurora's remaining time. She will remain on Midichlodian. Your Enterprise has subdued the Exxan ship, and is waiting in orbit for your return."

Millana threw herself away from the dining table and disappeared in a clatter of heeled shoes.

The queen visably stiffened. "Our daughter does not have the patience to bid you good night. We apologize for her rudeness, and wish you well."

Picard bowed for a third time, and left with the interpreter boy at his elbow. Weighing the sword in his hand, Picard followed dutifully behind the small boy. Just before they returned to his quarters, however, Picard was struck with a sudden idea.

"Tell me," he said to the boy, "Do you have a fencing gym?"


	14. Blind

The fencing gym was, naturally, magnificent. It was as tall as the reception hall had been, marbled, open, expansive. The floor was inlaid with giant tiles of reds and golds, and the columns ringing the open area were shot through with viens of precious metals. The suns had set, and the hall was lit from above with candlelight.

Millana was in the middle of the floor. She had changed from her dinner dress to a more sensible set of pants and a tunic, and he caught her in the middle of a complicated sword dance. Sensing his presence, she turned.

Picard swallowed, and approached, his footsteps echoing through the empty space. "I thought perhaps you could teach me how to use this," he said, proffering his newly awarded blade.

"Hold mine." Millana passed her sword over, hilt first, and took Picard's sword from him. She unsheathed it, silently, and hefted it a few times in her hand. She placed her fingers just past the hilt and balanced it horizontally first on the flats of two fingers, then one. She flipped it up, grabbed the hilt, and made a rapid pass through the air. "They didn't stiff you," she said, and they exchanged blades. "It's one of our best. Go put the sheath down and take off that outer robe and we'll see if I can't teach you something."

Picard had always prided himself on his swordsmanship, and this was a lesson in humility, if nothing else. She corrected his grip, his stance, his parry. She walked slowly around him as he went through the basic attacks, correcting the curve of his spine or the slant of his wrist with a quick tap from her own sword. Picard felt a fine bead of sweat break out across his brow before she let him relax.

She surveyed him smugly. "You've learnt some bad habits, fencing barkeep and ensigns on your ship."

Picard bristled, and she laughed. "Come now, that's not so bad. I've been fighting since I was born but I've never been a Captain. We chose our specialties." She turned and hung her blade up on a rack. "Would you like to spar? We'll put away your fancy sword so I don't nick it." She tossed him a dull practice blade, which he caught. Picard sheathed his ceremonial sword and tested the balance of the practice blade.

Millana grinned and pulled a scarlet handkerchief from her pocket. The hilt of her blade tucked under her arm, she reached up and tied the scarf around her eyes.

"We'll be blindfolded?" Picard asked, incredulously.

"Not you. Me." Millana shook her head from side to side, testing the blind. "The eyes are not as fast as the mind. To be a true swordsman, you must see through your blade. En garde."

"Surely that is a disadvantage."

"My childhood tutor was blind. All the greatest swordsmen here take their own sight. If it makes you feel better we can begin with crossed blades."

They assumed the guard position, Millana's blade gently resting against his. "Begin," she whispered.

Picard disengaged, sweeping his blade under and around, hesitant to attack. He felt a sudden jerk and the sword flew from his grip as Millana disarmed him with an upward parry. The sword clattered to the ground.

"Pick that up. My tutor would have given me thirty laps for disengaging like that. Fight me, don't just stand there holding your sword."

Picard grunted and picked up his blade, took up his stance, crossed blades.

"Begin," she whispered.

This time he attacked with a vengeance, parrying and thrusting. She beat away each attack succinctly, walking backwards. Her blade never stopped moving, feeling him out, finding his attack each time.

"You're playing with me," Picard said, breathlessly, lunging.

"Fun." Millana agreed.

He lunged forward, she side-stepped and rapped him on the top of his head with her hilt. "You're dragging your back foot. It telegraphs your lunges. Quiet, like the night. Now, again!"

He parried, he thrusted. Grinning, she walked him slowly forwards and backwards, turning away every attack. Picard stopped, panting, sword crossed with hers. "You're the one who's not fighting," he accused.

Their blades rasped as she locked them, hilt to hilt. Picard hadn't realized his back was to one of the marble columns until he hit it with a start. She twisted her sword to send his clattering. "Captain," she said, with a satisfied murmur, raising his chin with her blade. "Careful what you wish for."

With her unarmed hand she reached up and pulled her blind above one eye. She stared at him, and then giggled and backed away, undoing the knot and shaking out her hair.

"Well, I think that's enough humiliation for one night."

Picard realized the candles had burned low. "I am quite chastised, I assure you," he said, stiffly bending to retrieve his sword.

Millana hung up her own blade, her back to him. "Captain, can the Enterprise give me safe passage until I am reassigned?"

"Your mother made it clear - "

Millana spun on the spot. "My mother does not own me. And if I were leaving on the Enterprise she could be assured of my safety. Besides, Jorga - " Millana's teeth clenched. "Jorga is still out there and someone will need to testify against her. So can you give me safe passage?"

"Of course."

"I'll see you at 0800, then, captain." She inclined her head in a mocking salute, spun on her heels, and left.

In the empty gym Picard picked up his ceremonial blade, unsheathed it, and made a frustrated straight lunge.

"…Still dragging that back foot!" Millanna's distant voice echoed. A door clapped shut and echoed. All was silent.


End file.
